The Meat Market

The bottles line the shelves,
names in languages of countries
I've never been to nor will ever see.

Some are clear as air,
Fooling you with their appearance;
Empty they are not.

Some dark and red.
Whether from its own natural distillation,
Or the mood lights that surround their home.

Some are filled to the brim,
Like one little push
Would send them over the edge to spill their guts.

Some half empty, hollow,
Their souls drank firm;
Leaving them near empty ready to be thrown away.

Sizes tall and skinny,
Longnecks and cursive lettering;
Almost too demeur for such a common bar.

Some short and wide,
Filled with libations to tickle your stomach.
A presence with their plain simplicity.


Who makes these bottles?
Their bodies, their liquor?
Who is their god/creator?

They sit there waiting.
Will someone choose them tonight
Or will they be left there waiting for their drinker to come along?

Evenly, smoothly they stand there
The glass reflecting the lights
Competing with each other as to who stands out more.

Who wins in the game of bottles?
The one who lasts the longest on the shelf,
Preserving their inner souls from
being inhaled;
Or the one who fulfills its purpose,
Pleasing the tastes and senses of some stranger,
Only to end up thrown in the trash,
empty and alone.

A night at Excalibur

This page begs
To be filled with ink
This bottle asks
That someone will drink.
This napkin pleads
For somebody to use
This man needs
Some man to abuse

Midnight Poet

The midnight poet
Sings his song
Writes his heart
Strums along
His music internal
His words well choiced
Speaking with
His mental voice.

My Breakfast Pimp

The Prostitute
Offeres me his goodies.
Do ou want to hear the specials?
No thanks!
I point to the menu;
He takes the menu;
Gives a wink and a smile.
All around
People order.
Sluts over my hammy
The Super Sausage.

Inside My Cold Dead Heart

My mind is just filled, with blinding rage.
I could have killed but I stayed in my cage
And I don't know howlong I can keep
Cause the pain and the hurt are starting to seep..............

INSIDE MY COLD DEAD HEART
and I feeeeeeeeel
I don't want no part of this
LIIIIIIIIFE
You've chosen for me
I'm NOT REEEEEEEEAL!
How can I make you see?
How can I make you seeeee?

A reflection of you
A runaway thought
I'm always here
but I can't be caught
And I don't know howlong I can run
Cause the killing and burning HAS BE-GUN!

INSIDE MY COLD DEAD HEART
and I FEEEEEEEEEL
I don't want no part of this
LIIIIIIIIIIFE
you've chosen for me
I'm NOT REEEEEEEAL!
How can I make you see?

I'm not really here
You can't see me
But I'm part of you
What you want to be
Wake the fuck up
A voice inside your head
We're already stuck
Mine as well be DEAD!

INSIDE YOUR COLD DEAD HEART
I CAN'T FEEEEEEEEEEL
I'm just a PART of your
LIIIIIIIIIFE
that you are leeeeading
You can't SEEEEEEEE
that it's bleeeeding
that it's bleeedinggggggggg
that it's bleeedinggggggggg toooo death.

Untitled

Just when I think
That I could forget
I see you
And become upset.
I can be honest
With everyone but you
I can't say a word
About anything you do.

And I'm sorry
But this life
Has a two way street
I'm gonna say it
And you may hate it
Cause I'm standing on my own two feet;
The world doesn't
Revolve around you.

A Rainy Epiphony

I am sitting at my computer just thinking. Nothing in particular, just whatever pops into my head. It's raining outside, not that I can see it cause it's dark out, but I can hear the wetness of the drops splatter against the shingles of the roof.

I have an electronic candle in the window glowing gold, shining on the drops of rain that are clinging to the window screen. A splatter of gold in a square black rectangle.

I was listening to the radio this morning and they were talking about black holes. The common appearance resulting from the collapse of a star, creating that great black void. They mentioned that there are some black holes that are created within galaxies though they do not know how since some of the galaxies do not have enough "material" to have created one.

I wonder if this is what god sees when he's looking at us. Drops of water on a window screen of black, illuminated by the gold of the sun.

The Bird Song

Outside my window is a tree full of green leaves, some a little yellow with the glistening of the sun, while others more rich and dark with the coolness of the shade. It's branches wide and it's bark and trunk tall and sturdy. It has grown strong and bigger over time. I remember when it was just a twig.

On one of it's branches sings a bird. A song I do not know the words to but seems to awaken the soul. It sings and I watch it sitting there, still. Even though the branch beneath it's feet is swaying with the breeze, pushing against it, the bird sings clearly, throatily without missing a note. It does not look down to make sure the branch is still under it's feet, and it does not worry about falling. It sings with certainty that nothing about it can touch it or remove it from the place that it belongs.